


The Day of Living Dangerously or How Will Graham Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Hannibal Lecter

by whosays_penultimate



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Groundhog Day, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, and various twists in the familiar tale, basically a loop of hurt/comfort and pining for each other, but does Will ache for him?, lots of major character deaths but none permanent, of the 'i tried' variety mainly, some humour one hopes, spoiler alert: he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 00:16:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10373328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whosays_penultimate/pseuds/whosays_penultimate
Summary: What if Hannibal’s fiddling with equations to reverse time somehow accidentally and unknowingly led to a time loop, trapping him, Will and any unfortunates which cross paths with them on the one fateful day set for Hannibal's encounter with Dolarhyde, a day which always seems to end bloody.Trouble is, only Will remembers that the day repeats itself and wakes up each morning to do it all over again.How Will he ever break out of the loop?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This wonderful post here helped me pick the date for the WOTL groundhog day: http://bonearenaofmyskull.tumblr.com/post/148343219472  Thank you, clever fannibals.

_‘Tis now the very witching time of night,_

_When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out_

_Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,_

_And do such bitter business as the day_

_Would quake to look on._

_  
_

 

“To the Devil his due”, Will said, raising his glass and toasting the destruction of Hannibal Lecter.

It was dark in the office where Jack, Alana and himself were sitting in quiet conference, like villains in a melodrama, speaking in hushed tones, drinking copiously and averting their eyes from one another.

Will stumbled back to the motel late at night, thought briefly about calling Molly, gave it up as a bad job. After setting the alarm for 7:00 am the next day, he took off his shoes and fell asleep fully dressed, on the unmade bed.

Will did not know it at the time, but that would be the last good night’s sleep he would get for a long while.

 

Loop I

At 7:00, the alarm predictably woke Will up.

At 9:00 he was out the door.

At 10:00 he reached Jack’s office for one final discussion before the events would be set in motion.

At 11:30, he was sitting in the back of a police vehicle, opposite from Hannibal Lecter, staring resolutely down at his shoes.

At 11:53, all hell broke loose in the shape of Francis Dolarhyde shooting at them. The driver lost control of the vehicle and the car skidded off the road, rolled over and ended up into a ditch. Will hit his head in the impact, but still struggled to sit upright and blink away the nausea of his concussion as the back door opened and Francis Dolarhyde loomed into view. Will fumbled for his gun and fired in Dolarhyde’s general direction, a shoddy attempt. He missed by a mile. Dolarhyde smiled at him imperceptibly and raised his gun, going for a headshot: he didn’t miss. Everything went black.

 

(Loop) II.

At 7:00, the alarm woke him up.

Will blinked in amazement as he still vividly recalled the events of the previous day, then was forced to conclude, with some bewilderment, that it was in fact, the very same day. His head throbbed painfully, although there was no new scar to add to his collection, and he felt weighed down with a feeling of unease that he chalked up to the exceptionally vivid and detailed dream he had just had. The feeling of unease turned to dread, then mounting horror, as he went through the day, which repeated itself almost to the letter. In the van, after the accident, he tried to keep his hand steadier as he shot at Dolarhyde, but he was shaking so badly that the bullet went wildly amiss. Dolarhyde shot him in the chest this time. Will had a moment to register it, as he fell to his knees, clutching his wound and choking on his own blood. He could see the blurred outline of Hannibal, freed from his straitjacket, as he knelt down next to him, pressing on Will's wound, but then Dolarhyde came up behind the cannibal and dealt him a swift but powerful hit on the back of the head. Hannibal collapsed instantly. Will choked painfully as the wound continued to gurgle blood and then –

 

III.

Then the alarm rings.

Will sits up in bed, shaking all over, takes a long shower and throws away all the whiskey in the cabinet.

He takes a long look at himself in the mirror and considers the possibility that his encephalitis may have rebounded.

He finally makes it to Jack’s office and hovers outside for a while, as if afraid to set foot inside.

“You’re late”, Jack tells him sternly.

“I – didn’t sleep well last night. Bad dreams.”

“Well, we’re on our way to put a stop to your bad dreams.”

“Are we?” Will wonders bitterly.

“Yes”, Jack nods, seriously. “We are doing the right thing.”

“Of course, yes”, Will agrees. “It’s the success rate I’m worried about.”

“Just keep your head”, Jack tells him, and Will tries not to think about the time it was blown off. He fails.

“I just think that we could use more reinforcements”, he says a little desperately. “You know, just in case something goes wrong.”

Jack regards him steadily.

“It’s a little too late now to put in a request for more reinforcements. You should have thought of this yesterday.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda”, Will mumbles and Jack raises an eyebrow.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“No. But when have I ever been?”

With a self-deprecating smile, he turns to go.

“Be on high alert”, he tells the police officers. “Keep your eye out for anything unusual, and act immediately, using maximum force.”

The day invariably repeats itself, except Will manages to wound Dolarhyde. With a bellow like an angry beast, Dolarhyde throws the gun away and lunges at Will, who is too stunned to react. Powerful hands are squeezing Will’s throat, and Will looks over his shoulder and sees Hannibal, working to escape his straitjacket. Please, faster, Will thinks, as he begins to lose consciousness. Please help me Hannibal, I need you, he begs in his mind – and this time it’s not manufactured distress. Dolarhyde drops Will like a sack of potatoes, and abruptly spins around to catch sight of Hannibal who has almost escaped the confining material. The large man bends over calmly to redo the binds over Hannibal’s body, cruelly tight.

“Pardon the delay, Doctor Lecter”, Dolarhyde says in his rough voice. “I’ll be with you in a second.”

Will has been struggling to sit up on wobbly legs, but Dolarhyde is right next to him in an instant, and it takes Will a second to realize that the sickening crunch he just heard is the sound of his neck being snapped.

 

IV.

The alarm rings.

Will sighs and gets out of bed.

Half confused, half undecided, he goes to visit Hannibal, thinking of telling him of his strange dreams. He decides when he hears his voice. Quiet, affectionate.

“Hello, Will.”

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

“What’s on your mind, Will?”

“I am dreading this day. I keep having dreams where it all ends bad.”

“What is a bad ending for you, Will?”

“I die.” And you die, he doesn’t say.

Hannibal nods non-judgementally, as if they are still in therapy.

“And what would be a good outcome?”

“We live.” The ‘we’ comes automatically. “I mean –“, Will struggles to explain, “I had this dream where Dolarhyde shoots everyone in the vehicle transporting you.”

“And you wonder how to stop this dream from becoming reality”, Hannibal says, astute as always.

“Yes,” Will sighs.

Hannibal nods thoughtfully.

“Don’t antagonize the Dragon, Will. He will not be denied. Choose your battles.”

Will frowns up at him, picking at his words like morsels to be dissected before they are accepted and consumed.

Before he can reply, an FBI agent enters the room abruptly, with Hannibal’s guards in tow.

“We’re ready”, he says, brusquely, and Will straightens up, averts his gaze, puts space between him and Hannibal.

In the back of the police van, Will and Hannibal’s knees almost touch. Will avoids Hannibal’s look with practiced ease, but when Dolarhyde shows up and starts shooting, Will lifts his head and meets Hannibal’s look, curious to see his reaction at the fact that Will’s dream came true. But Hannibal does not look unfazed in the slightest, merely alert and ready to take advantage of the opportunity. The crash loosens the straps on his mask and he manages to make short work of the straitjacket himself. He stands by the time Dolarhyde opens the back door. Will’s instinct is to reach for the gun but he fights it down. He cowers in a corner. Dolarhyde throws them a quick look, then disappears, leaving the door open. They hear a car drive off. Will doesn’t bother to hide his open-mouthed surprise at this unexpected turn of events.

“He needs privacy for what he intends to do to us”, Hannibal explains, and Will closes his mouth. A reprieve, then. The end has been but postponed.

“I’m going to call Jack”, Will announces, and half-expects Hannibal to stop him, restrain him – kill him? After all, freedom is within reach and maybe he regrets giving it up for Will in the first place.

Instead, Hannibal sighs wearily.

“I thought you had intended to stop Dolarhyde, and use me to do it? Your plan is working swimmingly so far.”

“Yes, swimmingly”, Will mocks. “I’ve got a vehicle full of dead FBI agents.”

Hannibal shrugs, unconcernedly.

“More than a vehicle. Dolarhyde also killed the convoys. He wouldn’t take any chances.”

“This is a nightmare.”

Hannibal regards him shrewdly:

“Like the one you were telling me about earlier?”

“Yes. Except – I didn’t die – not yet.” Will hesitates. What should I do? hangs on the tip of his tongue. “What will Dolarhyde do?” he says instead.

Hannibal shrugs minutely.

“He probably waits to see what we’ll do. Where we will go. So he can follow.”

“So we give him what he wants.”

“We give him a chance to take it. Wasn’t that the plan?”

“The plan originally involved more people.”

“Perhaps it’s better this way.”

Will questions Hannibal’s definition of ‘better’ later that day when he finds himself tied up next to his old enemy, the two of them trussed up like pigs for slaughter, in the dragon’s lair.

“I could be more to you”, Dolarhyde tells Hannibal.

Hannibal smiles imperceptibly, but it is Will who laughs, a harsh, ringing, unhappy noise.

 “Oh, this is the absolute worst”, he mutters to himself. “I’m ready to wake up now, please.”

Hannibal affords him a passing glance, then turns to Dolarhyde.

“Please ignore Will’s rudeness”, he tells Francis. “I think you and I would be quite great together.”

“Remember that he betrayed you”, Will says louder, vying for Francis’ attention. “He will betray you again, it’s what he does.”

“If you’re referring to the incident with the phone call, I assure you, I had no choice. And Francis will remember that my timely warning enabled him to escape before the police arrived.”

“Francis”, Will says, turning serious, as Dolarhyde’s eyes snap from one to the other, confused. “I see you. Remember what I told you. Hannibal doesn’t deserve your devotion.”

“You would do well to know, Francis, that Will Graham here is quite a master of manipulation. Don’t fall into his trap. You’re better than him. Despite all he pretense, he doesn’t understand us – he can’t understand us. He’s just a little boy playing at being a man.”

Hannibal’s tone is now contemptuous and Will turns to watch him, momentarily stunned. He grits his teeth with new resolve.

“Francis, you and me can end him. He’s betrayed us both. Being ended by our hands would be a fitting way to go for him. Untie me. Let me have my vengeance on him.”

“Vengeance?” Hannibal sneers. “A big word you are yet to live up to.”

“Dr Lecter, I think you’ll find that-“

“Shut up, the both of you!” Dolarhyde roars.

Will and Hannibal fall silent, watching him apprehensively. Dolarhyde hesitates a beat, then goes to untie Hannibal’s hands. Will sighs in defeat.

Hannibal rubs his wrists, flexes his fingers, then sits up.

“Very well. Let us go now”, he tells Francis. “We don’t have much time.”

“Alright”, Francis agrees, then turns his gun abruptly on Will.

Hannibal shifts.

“You don’t really need to do that, do you?”

“I don’t like leaving loose ends.”

“They’ll know we’ve escaped together anyway. And it’s not like he’s worthy.”

In a flash, Will understands what Hannibal was trying to do, trying to paint him as unworthy of the Dragon’s attention, and his eyes widen. It was a good effort, but Francis looks undeterred.

“I’m doing this for you, Dr. Lecter”, he says, and then he pulls the trigger.

Will has no time to be afraid or sorry – the last thing he sees is Hannibal’s face dissolving into darkness.

 

V.

Then the alarm rings.

Will spends a few moments lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and pondering for the umpteenth time just who exactly he is to Hannibal, and who is Hannibal to him.

It’s a riddle wrapped inside an enigma tied with a pretty ribbon of denial and left to marinate in deception and ridiculously expensive wine.

Like the man himself.

And Will is tired, so tired.

As he brushes his teeth bleary eyed in the bathroom, he thinks: ‘I’m going to run away from all this. Go someplace far away where there’s a river to fish in and dogs to rescue, and where nobody knows me and Jack won’t ever find me again.’

What better time like the present – the ever-repeating present – to do just that.

He packs the barest necessities and decides to take the first train to Bumfuck, Ohio. He resolutely ignores Jack’s phone calls and his half annoyed, half worried messages demanding to know Will’s whereabouts. He’s almost at the train station when Jack sends him the following message: ‘I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I’m letting you know just the same: We went through with the plan without you. Hannibal has escaped in earnest.’ Will resists the childish urge to type back ‘So?’ A couple of hours later, another message. ‘We haven’t got a lead on the Tooth Fairy either. We could really use your help, Will. Please, at least call to let me know you’re alive.’ Will remorselessly turns off his phone and turns to watch the scenery out the window.

He checks into a nondescript motel and watches the news just enough to see that the manhunt for Hannibal Lecter and Francis Dolarhyde still continues.

‘I hope you’ll be happy together’, Will tells the tv, only half sarcastically, then goes fishing.

He returns to the motel late in the evening, physically relaxed but with an unexplainable knot of anxiety in his gut. He’s sure he’ll wake up the next day to the same accursed March 17th, but at least he got a day all to himself. He should indulge like this more often, and to hell with Jack, the Tooth Fairy, and Hannibal Lecter. Especially to hell with Hannibal Lecter.

“Hello, Will.”

Will freezes with his hand on the light switch. He belatedly focuses on the shadow of the man sitting on the bed in the darkened room, and fumbles for the gun before turning on the light.

Hannibal blinks placidly up at him.

“What?!” Will shrieks inelegantly. “How...?”

“I followed you, Will.”

“You followed me”, Will mouths. “Why didn’t you approach me right away?” he questions immediately.

“I figured you could use a break. You obviously needed one.”

“You figured....”, Will parrots. “Fucking Christ”, he swears, and feels vindicated when Hannibal winces. “What do you want?” he demands angrily.

“Nothing more than your hospitality for the night, and the gift of your friendship, before we must inevitably part.”

Will frowns.

The light from friendship won’t reach us for a million years, he doesn’t say.

“You escaped”, he says, uselessly. “They’re looking for you.”

“Yes”, Hannibal nods. “Surely you of all people were able to see this coming. This is why you decided not to be in the van with me, isn’t it?”

Will doesn’t bother to contradict him.

“The plan was to contact Dolarhyde...”

“No, Will. That was the plan when you and Jack held all the cards. Now I hold the cards. And I’m quite fond of this shy boy. Our paths needn’t cross, to our mutual destruction.”

“He doesn’t think the same. He wants to find you, and change you.”

“Let him try. I always enjoy a challenge.”

Hannibal stands up and stretches, stiffly.

“But not just yet”, he continues. “I’m afraid prolonged inactivity and bad food have taken their toll on me. I would be thankful for a quiet evening in the company of someone who doesn’t want me dead.”

Will laughs mirthlessly.

“Are you sure that’s me?” he questions with a sneer.

Hannibal doesn’t smile.

“Yes, Will. I’m sure.”

He turns his back on Will, without any fear or apprehension, although Will still hasn’t lowered his gun, and goes into the bathroom. Will waits until he hears the shower being turned on, then sets the gun down, and rubs shaking hands over his face.

Hannibal comes out of the shower eventually, a towel wrapped around his waist and sets about to make a mouth-watering dinner from Will’s catch. They follow it up with tea instead of the wine which has usually accompanied most of their dinners and interactions. Will was planning to drown himself in whiskey for the night to top off his supremely unproductive day, but he has to admit sitting on the edge of the motel bed, drinking tea next to Hannibal, he has never felt more relaxed or domestic. Not even with Molly. The thought gives him pause. Hannibal moans and laments the weak tea, but to Will it tastes unusually good – it tastes like peace and comfort. He can easily envisage how evenings like this could become all he needs. He slinks imperceptibly closer to Hannibal, quietly enjoying the way their shoulders almost brush, and postpones the moment when he would have to justify it to himself.

Will offers the single bed to Hannibal.

“You need rest more than I do”, he says by way of explanation.

“Are you going to call Jack?” Hannibal asks, ignoring the offer.

“I haven’t decided yet”, Will answers truthfully.

Hannibal nods, sadly.

“I’m not going to be caught again”, he says, decisively. “They’ll have to kill me. You’ll have to kill me.”

“I don’t intend for you to be caught again, either”, Will agrees, and does not elaborate further.

Hannibal moves slowly towards the bed.

“Come, then. Share this with me.”

Will looks at him with distrust:

“Share what exactly?”

“You know I won’t hurt you”, Hannibal says, in answer to his apprehension, and Will laughs a little hysterically. “You know I won’t hurt you in this way”, Hannibal amends. “I won’t do anything that you don’t want.”

“And if”, Will hesitates, “if I want you to?” He must be drunk, Will thinks. There must have been something in that tea-

Hannibal stills, not even a muscle moves on his face.

“Then I definitely won’t do it”, he answers finally.

Will nods, as if he expected no less, and slides under the covers next to Hannibal. The bed is small and they’re pressed against each other. Hannibal’s heat envelops Will and he wants to melt into it, or run halfway across the earth to escape it. Hannibal’s arm comes up around his back, elbow on the bed and Will feels fingers becoming entangled into his curls. When Hannibal speaks, the whisper is hot on Will’s face.

“This is not a game, Will”, he says fiercely. “Everything between us is, but this isn’t.”

Will’s urge to run as fast and far as possible intensifies. It’s too much, the onslaught of sensations, he wants to seal his eyes shut against it, but contrary to his instincts, they snap open to gaze upon the impossibly fascinating and repulsive creature who is holding him tightly now, but will be gone in the morning – no, earlier than the morning. Will wonders at this creature’s sudden vulnerability when threatened with the possibility of sexual intimacy with the object of his desire. If Will were a lesser man, he’d exploit that. If Will were a lesser man, and not already suffering from the same fate.

“I wasn’t”, Will whispers finally, because even if it all starts again tomorrow, he needs Hannibal to somehow know. “I didn’t mean- I’m sorry. The truth is, I don’t know what I want.”

“That has always been abundantly clear, my dear Will”, Hannibal says ironically, but not without some measure of weary tenderness. “And this is precisely why I will not allow myself to love you in the way that I desire.”

Will’s heart breaks a little at these words. He moves closer on the small bed, deeper into Hannibal’s embrace, face pressed to his chest, breathing him in.

“Love me like this, then”, he mutters. “Just hold me.”

When Will wakes up, in his Baltimore motel, to the same alarm signalling the day of Match 17th, he can still feel the imprint of Hannibal’s arms around him.

 

VI.

Will corners Jack in the FBI hallway.

“I don’t want to go through with this anymore.”

“Why?”

“I’m just having second thoughts, is all. It’s an incredibly unreliable plan – anything can happen – anything.”

And when I say anything, he thinks, I mean it.

Jack ponders.

“What brought this on?” he queries, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Yesterday you were hell bent on it.”

“Well, I slept on it and now I’ve changed my mind”, Will snaps.

Jack looks him up and down, doubtfully.

“You don’t look like you got all that much sleep, come to mention it.”

Will rolls his eyes:

“Perhaps because I was up for most of the night, worrying about everything that might go wrong.”

Jack shakes his head, with an abrupt hand gesture.

“The wheels have been set in motion”, he says, decisively. “There’s no backing down from it now.”

He hesitates.

“Do you still want to – ride with Hannibal?”

“No. Yes. Yes, I want to be there.”

Jack looks up at him, frowning.

“Just, please”, Will goes on, trying to make his voice steady. “Talk to the officers who will ride with us, talk to the entire convoy – tell them this is not a drill, and that they should be expecting... disturbance. Tell them to be on high alert mode at all times during the ride. Tell them to expect an ambush.”

Jack’s mouth gapes open.

“Do you have a reason to suspect an ambush, Will?”

“A reason, no”, Will spits out. “Just what my gut instinct is telling me, Jack, and you’ll do well to listen.”

His tone is unusually combative, and Jack looks up at him sharply. Will storms out of the room, to avoid any further confrontation, leaving Jack to stare after him.

It’s strange facing Hannibal after their scene of intimacy – even though Hannibal doesn’t know, Will feels the knowledge is somehow imprinted in his eyes, or that Hannibal would sniff it out of him, like he always does. But if Hannibal knows or suspects something is amiss in Will’s manner towards him, he says nothing. Their knees almost brush inside the police car, and Will is so focused on keeping his legs rigidly away, that he belatedly registers the hubbub of Dolarhyde making his presence known. The crash makes him fly across the small enclosed space: he hits his head and loses consciousness.

Will blinks slowly to awareness in the stark whiteness of what he belatedly realizes must be a hospital room. Molly sits on a chair next to his bed.

“Hey”, she says, and smiles. “You big hero.”

“Whuh?” Will says.

She laughs, and reaches out to caress his curls.

“We’re safe”, Molly tells him. “We can go home again. It’s over.”

“What do you mean?” he mutters blearily, leaning instinctively into her touch.

Will fuzzy mind gradually clears, and his eyes snap fully open, as he remembers everything, and he half sits up, staring around.

“What happened? Is it the same day?” he shouts, with almost panicked urgency.

“Shhh – baby, it’s alright, relax.”

“Don’t – Molly, just – tell me, please”, he tries to calm down and appear less the madman he undoubtedly must look and sound like.

“It’s only been a few hours since the crash, Will”, Molly answers, soothingly. “You’re going to be alright.”

Will slumps back onto the pillow, defeated. He feels a headache coming on. There’s still hope, though, that everything was finally put right. But it seems too good to be true, and his life never was like this.

“What happened?” he asks again, more sedately.

Molly tells him.

Apparently, the police officers were alerted by Jack enough to repel the Dragon’s attack on the convoy. Dolarhyde was brought down, although not without loss of life.

“And Hannibal?” Will asks.

“Hannibal was caught in the crossfire. He’s dead.”

Will feels numb.

“You’re finally free of him, Will”, Molly says, and Will hears clearly the satisfaction and resentment in her voice.

“Yeah. Free,” Will’s voice echoes hollow when he speaks. “Molly... I'm tired. I want to sleep.”

“Sleep then, baby. I’ll be right here.”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to be alone.”

Molly stares at him, hurt and bewildered, but doesn’t argue, and leaves without a word.

Will turns over in bed, closes his eyes, and imagines Hannibal is next to him, and if Will only reached out his arm, he could touch him. But he doesn’t reach out his arm, to keep the illusion alive. He drifts off, then wakes, to barely the evening of the same day, ignores the hospital food and goes back to bed to wait it out. He berates himself with fury that he could wish for this reality – the best case scenario so far, to be just another loop in the never-ending stream, so that he wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow to a world that doesn’t have Hannibal in it. It’s selfish and illogical, hell it borders on suicidal, but then again, in the depths of his being, Will Graham was never particularly sane or rational. Now the cracks are showing, and the bluff is eroding.

VII.

Slowly, the sanitary smell fades, and the alarm rings.

Will opens his eyes slowly, and takes a deep, resigned breath.

The guilt for wishing the previous day’s reality gone is more pronounced now that his unstated wish came true and he wakes up to repeat it all again.

He enters Jack’s office abruptly, slamming the door behind him.

“I don’t want to go through this anymore.”

“The wheels have been set into motion, Will.“

Will repeats the previous day’s warning to Jack about expecting an ambush – which is met this time by Jack’s scoff of disbelief.

“We have no reason to suspect-“

“Okay, you know what?” Will interrupts him irritably. “You can ride with Hannibal then, and take the blame if anything goes wrong, or the glory if it all turns out right. I’m going home to Molly.”

He turns on his heels and leaves. Jack stares after him, but doesn’t stop him.

Will sits up all night browsing the internet for news, resolutely ignoring Molly’s calls. Finally, at 11:30 pm, Tattle Crime reports an exclusive ‘Notorious serial killer meets his end at the hands of another’. It is gruesome. Francis Dolarhyde finally took what he wanted from Hannibal – and more. He changed him. Will stares at Hannibal’s violated and mutilated body on display, dimly noting that Freddie had stopped calling Dolarhyde ‘the Tooth Fairy’ – they must have struck a deal. He takes out the gun from the pocket of his jacket and considers shooting himself in the head, but then he sees that it’s only two minutes to midnight.

  


VIII.

When the alarm sounds, Will spends a few good minutes shaking with delayed shock, then he laughs like a madman, before bursting into wholesome tears. He takes a long shower, then sets off for BSHCI immediately. He can’t go through with the whole nightmare again in the state he’s in, he won’t. He calls Jack on the way.

“I have a favour to ask of you, Jack. Let’s delay this operation until tomorrow. Please. Let’s not do it today.”

“Why?” Jack asks suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just that I don’t feel well. And I need to be sharp and ready for this, don’t I? We can’t afford to fail.”

“Will, is there a _problem_?” Jack inquires, and it triggers a sensation of deja vu inside Will’s mind.

He is suddenly enraged – he’s had enough of deja vu to last him a lifetime. Or the rest of splintered lifetimes which make up this nightmare of a day repeating itself on a loop.

“Not a problem you should concern with, Jack”, he answers, coldly. “I am merely asking for a bit of time. Please try to postpone it until tomorrow.”

“Time is a luxury we don’t have, Will. The longer we wait –“

“Trust me, Jack - one day isn’t going to make much difference”, Will interrupts impatiently. Unconsciously, he softens his tone to the distressed vulnerability which Hannibal at least used to respond so favourably to. It’s worth a try. “Please. I never asked you for anything – and you have always asked everything of me.”

This seems to strike home because Jack relents, guiltily.

“Fine, then. Tomorrow.”

Will smiles as he turns his phone off and thinks to himself, ‘That’s a card I’ll be playing again, and again, and again’.

Hannibal looks surprised, but not displeased, to see him.

“You’re early”, he says.

Will doesn’t answer. He approaches the glass pane, and studies Hannibal, then takes in the room stripped of all comforts.

“How do you spend your time here?” Will asks. “Without your books and drawings.”

Hannibal smiles.

“In my memory palace”, he answers.

Will hesitates.

“Can you show me?”

“Certainly”, Hannibal says, and the rest of the day passes in a golden blur.

 

XXVIII.

Will warns the policemen riding in the van about the ambush. They manage to bring down Dolarhyde without significant loss of life. The next thing Will knows, one of the officers turns his gun on Hannibal, still bound inside the vehicle, mask still in place – at the sight of the gun, Hannibal’s eyes widen imperceptibly, then he turns to stare at Will.

“What are you doing?” Will demands of the gun-holding officer.

But he already knows the answer. It is, after all, what he and Jack decided on.

“Shot”, the officer answers mechanically, “shot while trying to escape.”

Before Will can make a move, the anticipated shot rings out. He rushes to Hannibal, uncaring of the policeman’s bewildered look, cradles Hannibal’s head on his arm.

“Will”, Hannibal whispers, looking up at him. “To die in your arms – such a happy fate – instead of – watching the diaper carts go by – “

He’s delirious and Will tightens his hold on him, allowing him this final comfort, until the ambulance gets there.

Hannibal dies on the way to the hospital.

Will drinks himself into a stupor.

 

XXIX.

The next morning, the alarm sounds at the usual hour, it is of course still the 17th of March and Will thinks it’s unfair that hangovers should carry on to the following morning, when it is in fact the same bloody day.

He forgoes the morning shower and coffee, in favour of hair of the dog, then he takes a cab and stumbles into the FBI building and into Jack’s office, eyes bloodshot and reeking of whiskey.

Jack wrinkles his nose in distaste at the sight and smell of him, and Will braces himself for the speech of paternal retribution, managing to block out most of it.

“ .... are you really ready to do this, Will?”

“Do I look ready?” Will sneers.

“You look like you could use several showers.”

“This is a stupid plan. Can you not see how dumb of a plan this is, Jack? There is no way, no way, this can end well. In no possible universe can this trainwreck of a plan go well, Jack.”

“Huh. That’s not what you said yesterday.”

“I slept on it.”

“Doesn’t look like you had much sleep. Look, Will – you don’t have to do this. I’ll take care of it. Go home, get some rest. We’ll be in touch.”

“So you can get the guts _and_ the glory?” Will snickers as he turns and walks away. Jack pretends not to hear him. “Dolarhyde’s planning something”, he throws over his shoulder. “Just so you know. Be prepared – it’s gonna end messy.”

“How do you know?”

Will is already out the door.

“A vision”, he shouts back in Jack’s general direction.

“A tragic road accident today has claimed the life of 10 police officers, including FBI Agent Jack Crawford. They were escorting the famous BSHCI prisoner Hannibal Lecter, dubbed Hannibal the Cannibal, who was also killed in the accident. No further details are available at this time-“

Will turns off the tv, and lies staring at the ceiling in the darkness, waiting for the alarm to sound.

 

XXX.

Will showers, shaves, combs his hair carefully and dons his favourite suit, a blue one he bought in Florence long ago and only wore a couple of times since.

At the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he receives an unsettling amount of wolf whistles and catcalls, until he reaches Hannibal’s remote cell. Unusually, Hannibal is still sleeping. Will takes a chair and sits, silently watching him. It is almost peaceful. Will supposes Hannibal had gotten used to sleeping under the blinding white lights which never go off, and through any noise which might be going on around him, and still be able to keep his good humour upon waking. It’s the little things that make life worth living, things like orchestrating the death of your arch enemy’s wife. Will can’t suppress a slight smile at that thought, even as a part of him wonders what the hell. It is at that moment that Hannibal blinks awake. In the split second between sleep and waking, the vulnerable moment before full awareness sinks in, Hannibal’s eyes widen childishly at the sight of Will.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

Beat.

“Hello, Will”, Hannibal says, warmly. “Is it time already?”

“No, not yet. I couldn’t sleep. I was nervous.”

Hannibal nods, quietly cherishing this new tone of Will’s, neither combative nor hurtful, as much as the confidence imparted. He stands, then goes to sit at the table, not taking his eyes off Will.

Will thinks there is something endearing about the fact that Hannibal is positively glowing. It puts him in mind of Bedelia’s words ‘he daily feels a stab of hunger for you and finds nourishment at the very sight of you.’ How quaint. He glosses over the next part, the part where he’s supposed to feel the same ache. He’s got enough on his plate as it is.

‘Are you in love with me?’ he wants to ask.

“Why are you going through with this plan?” he asks instead. ‘It’s weak, like you said, I know it and you know it.”

“Yes. And Jack knows it.”

“So, why then?”

“Because you asked me to.”

Will can’t deal with this.

“And because you’re curious what will happen,” he counters.

Hannibal nods, approaching the glass pane.

“I am curious what you would do.”

That makes two of us, Will thinks.

“I’ll see you in the van”, Will tells him, by way of goodbye, and leaves.

Dolarhyde shoots the driver, causing the car to skid off the road and bump into a nearby tree. Everyone in the van is stunned, making it easy for Dolarhyde to sweep in and kill the rest of the policemen, then drive off without touching either Will or Hannibal. Will rubs at his eyes with an unsteady hand and groans. He thinks he’s hallucinating. He has a nasty head wound from the crash and his vision is decidedly blurry. He can’t move. He watches Hannibal slowly take off his mask and straitjacket, stretching his limbs like a cat in the sunlight, then looking back at Will, amused at his confusion, as he explains:

“He won’t kill us here, the Dragon. What he intends to do requires a bit more privacy.”

“Ugh”, Will responds.

Hannibal unceremoniously removes the corpse of the driver from a nearby police car and climbs in.

“Are you joining me, Will? Or do you trust me to take care of the Dragon by myself?”

Will wobbles unsteadily on his feet.

“Wait”, he says, and manages to get his legs moving. He gets into the passenger seat and bleeds all over the upholstery, while Hannibal drives away. He thinks Hannibal might as well take them out of the country, he’d be too out of it to notice. His head wound makes him feel queasy. Hannibal says nothing of the house in front of which he eventually parks the car, and Will doesn’t ask.

Hannibal takes care of Will’s wound with patient gentleness, then goes to take a shower. When he emerges, he is wearing a suit, if not one of his usual flamboyant ones, and Will’s heart clenches a little with nostalgia. He opens a bottle of wine and hands Will a glass.

“This feels like borrowed time”, Hannibal muses, with a smile.

Will couldn’t agree more.

“He’s watching us, though”, he says, because he feels the Dragon is indeed shadowing their every move,  waiting to pounce.

“I know”, Hannibal nods. “Are you really going to let him kill me?”

“Change you”, Will can’t help correcting him, with a twisted smile.

Before Hannibal can reply, a shot rings out - the glass window shatters, and Hannibal falls, clutching his stomach. He groans, and Will winces with sympathy at the thought that the bullet is still inside him. He has no time to dwell on it, however, because Francis Dolarhyde kicks in the door, and looms into view larger than life. He gives Hannibal a long, assessing look, before he turns his attention to Will. Something in Will’s expression seems to trigger him, because he raises his gun and shoots Will, as well, the same low hit. Will staggers to his knees. He imagines the bullet tearing the flesh of his belly, opening the old wound that Hannibal gave him. He can’t suppress a groan of pain and desperation. They are both incapacitated and can do nothing but watch, through a haze of pain as Dolarhyde sets up his camera. Will desperately tries to grab the gun from his back pocket with shaking fingers, while Dolarhyde focuses on Hannibal.

“I’m going to film your death, Dr. Lecter”, he says, with barely restrained excitement.

Will lifts the gun and shoots, but Dolarhyde is already up and makes for him with large threatening steps. Still, the bullet catches him in the shoulder, and he stumbles momentarily, like an enraged beast.

“You know, I think I will break your back after all. They’ll have to roll you to your next investigation.”

Will’s next shot goes wildly remiss, and then Dolarhyde is on him and Will closes his eyes in defeat. He opens them abruptly back when the expected pain does not come – Hannibal, incredibly, is on his feet, hands around Dolarhyde’s throat, trying to pull him back. He can’t quite manage it – Dolarhyde swats at him angrily, and he falls back, but his moment of distraction is enough for Will. He grips the gun with both hands to steady it, and shoots, aiming for the heart of the dragon.

It is over.

Nothing to do now but steadily bleed to death from their wounds.

As if in answer to Will’s unspoken thought, Hannibal crawls to him, grimacing with pain, face horribly white. His stomach wound is bleeding copiously.

“I think Francis got a little overexcited. He didn’t mean for this bullet to kill me, but I believe it entirely possible, if not very likely. I suppose it is asking for much, seeing as my life is considered expendable, but I require medical attention.”

“Come closer”, Will hears himself say. His voice sounds strangely weak and foreign.

Hannibal obeys, crawling painfully until he is within reach of Will.

“Lie here with me for a while”, Will says, and edges closer, pressing his face into Hannibal’s neck.

“As you wish”, Hannibal sighs, and does not mention his wound again, or Will’s. His breathing becomes steadily quieter, even as Will’s grows painful and erratic. As Will begins to whimper and thrash in the death throes, Hannibal holds him close and soothes him:

“Shh. You’re going into shock. In a few moments, you will begin to feel light-headed, then drowsy. Don't resist; it's so gentle, like slipping into a warm bath... I believe, Will, this is where our great game finally ends, for the both of us.”

“The worst of all possible worlds?” Will huffs, deliriously.

“Oh I don’t know about worst. I think the worst would be one where our great game would be unstarted.”

 

XXXI.

Will wakes up, alarm blaring and his heart yammering in his chest. He groans.

He feels it in his bones that what he had just experienced was so fucking close – never had he got that far – to what?

Nevermind – he’ll try again. Enlivened by the variation, enlivened by Hannibal’s last words to him, by their unexpected bonding, he no longer feels apathetic, but filled with a new purpose.

He stands up and tries to repeat the sequence of events from yesterday. The blue suit, the shave, combing down unruly hair, the early call to BSHCI, watching Hannibal sleep like a baby, his pleased surprise upon waking and seeing Will there, his gaze on Will like a warm touch – like sinking into a hot bath. He remembers again Hannibal’s words to him in his final moments and he shudders with something like longing.

Dolarhyde shoots, the cars crash into each other, the Dragon shoots everyone except Hannibal and Will. Hannibal invites him into the car, and he drives them to a cabin in the woods.

Will would like to ask Hannibal how many safehouses he has built to be used in incredible occasions such as these, but decides he’s better off not knowing.

However, he can’t stop himself hoping that Dolarhyde will have more difficulty tracking them this time.

Hannibal emerges from the shower, dressed in a casual sweater and jeans, but offers a glass of wine to Will with no less than his usual flair.

“This feels like borrowed time”, Hannibal muses. “And so I feel that I must say, given that there may be little chance of me expressing it in the future, that you look particularly lovely today, Will.”

Will stares in shock, then blinks and averts his eyes.

“This is not merely a shallow compliment, Will”, Hannibal clarifies. “Although, if I were to pay you one, I’d remark upon your natural beauty which requires no enhancements, and which you usually take great pains to hide under ill-fitting clothes and careless grooming.”

“Are you sure you mean to pay me a compliment, Dr. Lecter?” Will snaps acerbically.

“ - but today you have selected clothes that compliment your figure, you have shaved and combed down your hair to manageable levels.”

Will remains quiet.

“I am only asking”, Hannibal prods, “because the last time you made a most welcome change in your wardrobe and hairstyle, it was the start of a game of seduction and betrayal. What have you got in store for me tonight, Will?”

“I’m afraid you’re reading too much into this”, Will replies.

“And for that you must pardon me. I am still not fully accustomed to being a pawn in the games of others. I used to run shows, not help others run them.”

It seems Will underestimated the amount of childish resentment nursed by Hannibal throughout his long incarceration, while Will kept stubborn distance. 

“Well then, this is a welcome change for everyone, if not for you”, he counters with a bitter smirk, and raises his glass to Hannibal in a mock toast.

Hannibal gives a slight wince, which turns into a half smile.

“My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will.”

“Likewise”, Will replies.

“You haven’t touched your wine. I assure you it is unadulterated.”

“I need to stay sharp this evening. The Dragon will be here sooner rather than later.”

Hannibal nods.

“I know. Do you intend to watch him kill me?”

“That was my intention”, Will admits.

“Is that no longer your intention, then?” Hannibal asks.

Will lays back into the comfortable chair and runs his finger slowly over the glass rim. Hannibal watches, transfixed.

“No”, Will answers simply.

“Do you intend to kill me yourself? After the Dragon is disposed of?”

“That was the FBI’s original plan”, Will nods calmly.

“But you will not go through with it”, Hannibal says, with marginal doubt.

“Nuh-uh”, Will says, by now thoroughly enjoying himself.

Hannibal doesn’t ask any further questions – he sits, sipping delicately at his wine and sets off to study Will’s face like a favourite painting he has a mind to reproduce.

Will feels lightheaded under the intense scrutiny, and is about to rise, but then abruptly, like a switch that has been turned on, he becomes certain that they are not alone.

“He’s watching us”, he murmurs, his hand already questing for the gun.

“I know”, Hannibal answers, and then, moving deliberately and openly, he goes to sit in front of the window.

There is a resounding crash and Will fires at the approaching Dolarhyde, three, five, seven shots – it seems forever until the dragon is brought down and only when he sees the man stumble and fall, his formidable hide finally pierced, that Will registers the pain. He looks down in a daze, only to see that he has received his own share of bullets. Time slows. He stumbles to his knees, and Hannibal is suddenly right there to catch him, and lays him down gently, cradling his head.

Will wants to ask Hannibal if he’s hurt, but only manages an inarticulate gurgle.

Hannibal’s voice comes to him as if from far away.

“Will, my dear Will. Cunning boy, brave boy.” His hands hover over Will’s broken body, reluctant to touch him and cause more damage.

Will blinks painfully, trying to gather his wits, and finally gets enough command of his voice to whisper:

“Not brave enough – and not quick enough.”

He attempts a self deprecating laugh at his own joke, and chokes again. Through his blurred vision, the glimpse of Hannibal he gets is incredible. He doesn’t look like Hannibal. There is no trace of gloating or satisfaction at Will's predicament. Hannibal looks devastated, vulnerable, defeated - yet somehow, to Will's eyes, so beautiful. Will wants to speak again, he wants to impart this to Hannibal, but doesn’t manage it, and that small effort seems to be too much for him. Fast slipping away, Will still has just time enough to feel Hannibal abandoning all pretense and clutching him to his chest, sobbing in an agony of sorrow – and crying out to him in a foreign language.

'It’s no use' – is Will's last thought. 'My fortune is fickle, time is fickle and it’s time to admit the inevitable: I am trapped in hell, with the Devil for company.'

 

 

XXXV.

Will shoots everyone in the vehicle, releases Hannibal and hands him the key to the car.

“Go”, he tells him.

Hannibal stares at him, stricken and lovelorn.

“Come with me.”

“No. I can’t.”

“But they’ll” – Hannibal’s voice drops to a whisper – “they’ll know you did this.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Hannibal smiles broadly:

“Of course you’re going to be fine. You’re _you_.”

“I’ll come back for you", he tells Will, and Will smiles:

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise", Hannibal says seriously, before he takes off. "And I always keep my promises."

You won't keep this one, Will thinks sadly.

Will goes to sleep that night and dreams of Hannibal making it across the border safely and crossing into Cuba to lay in the sun and let his hair grow to silky golden strands.

 

 XXXVI.

He wakes abruptly when the alarm sounds.

'I guess that’s love. I can’t pretend otherwise', he thinks, defeated.

He turns off his phone, locks his door and draws his curtains. He sits in the darkness and thinks. 

Despite being in the worst possible predicament, in the middle of a chain of events he can't escape, fenced in by danger and uncertainty, he can't help the occasional smile. That special secret smile that people all over the world indulge in when they remember 'Isn't it funny - how I'm in love' - and now Will Graham is consciously among them.

  


XXXVII.

Will goes to visit Bedelia.

“You haven’t left yet?” he asks her. “You haven’t even packed your bags?”

“I can’t just uproot my existence in a matter of hours, Will”, she snaps in irritation.

“No?” he smirks. “You’ve done it twice before.”

Bedelia’s lips tighten.

“Why are you here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be off – preparing?”

Will sits down uninvited.

“I’ve come for some advice", he says, reluctantly.

Bedelia raises an eyebrow.

"Will wonders never cease", she comments wryly, then goes to pour herself a drink – which turns into three, by the time Will finishes his story.

“The problem is, I mean, besides the irritating repetition of the very same day, that in almost every scenario either I die, or Hannibal dies and sometimes we both die, and I’m pretty sure by now this is something that must be avoided at all costs, and I’ll be fucked and damned if I understand what I need to do to stop it all.”

“Fucked and damned”, Bedelia repeats, the words obscenely slurred, a smile playing on her lips.

Will frowns.

“Indeed, you'd know all about that”, he shoots back. “I take it you don’t believe me?”

“Oh, in the sense of a purely intellectual exercise, let’s assume that I do. Why are you so sure that your death and Hannibal’s must be avoided at all costs to stop the day from repeating?”

“Because we’ve died in all manner of ways so far and I still wake up to that same blasted alarm and it’s still March 17th, which would be great for me if I was in New York and Irish, but I’m neither.”

Bedelia sips her drink unconcernedly.

“Maybe that’s the universe’s way of punishing him. Or you.”

“Is this the best you can do?”

“Have you really tried all available alternatives? All forks in the road? There must be an escape route somewhere that you haven’t tried, Will. Think – think outside the box, Will.”

“But – can’t _you_ think of anything?”

“Oh Will, even if I could – I’m afraid this is something you must figure out for yourself. This is all in your own head, after all.”

“Great, just great. You’ve been fantastic help, Bedelia, as always.”

Bedelia doesn’t look off-put by his snark. Her eyes shine with lively interest at his predicament. Or maybe it’s just the drink.

“Think outside of the box, Will”, she repeats, as he takes his leave. “Or feel outside of the box. Whichever comes easier to you.”

 

Will takes out his old chess board and places the figurines on it.

'So here’s Dolarhyde, here’s Hannibal, here’s me and here’s Jack.' He smirks as he picks the Black Queen for Hannibal. 

'Hannibal’s a big drama queen so it fits.' 

Will self indulgently makes himself a knight. 

'I’m supposed to be white like Jack, he thinks, but who even knows anymore. And all these pawns who sadly are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who’s supposed to win?

Who’s supposed to survive?

Everyone has died at one point or another.

Why is it me that has to decide?

I just want everybody to live', Will thinks miserably.

'Even Dolarhyde can be redeemed.' 

He remembers Reba, and places another figurine on the chess board.

'Maybe I’m just supposed to save everybody', Will thinks hopefully.

Think outside the box.

  


 XXXVIII.

“Nuh-uh”, Reba tells him. “No way, Jose.”

The children mill about her, on their way out, and Will waits them out before he insists some more.

“Goodbye, Ms. McClane”, the children call out.

Reba answers to each by their own name, smiling.

“Reba”, Will picks up, after the last child has left, and they’re standing in the empty classroom. “I know it’s a lot to ask. And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. But – I really believe that you can save Francis.”

“Maybe I can, and maybe I can’t”, Reba says immediately. “Who knows? Not me.” She draws herself up. “The point is, I’m tired of being the uncertain variable in my own life.”

“Believe me”, Will says feelingly, “I know what that’s like.”

“You can stow that empathy crap”, she reacts angrily. “I’m not doing it. And I don’t care if you think I’m a coward.”

“I don’t”, Will answers quietly.

“So I’m a coward, then”, she bursts out. “But if that means I’m also a survivor, then I’ll take that gladly.”

“Are you really fine with where your story with Francis ended?”

“I’m just grateful it didn’t end with me being dead”, Reba counters, and really, what could Will reply to that – “grateful enough not to tempt fate for an encore.”

Will knows the battle is lost, but he presses on, with a truly Hannibalesque remark:

“It might be therapeutic”, he offers.

Reba smiles thinly:

“For him, or for me?”

“For both.”

Reba’s smile turns tremulous.

“You know, that almost could sway me. I did love him, you know. But my final answer is still no, Will. I’m sorry. No.”

  


Later, after Dolarhyde crashes their car, Hannibal takes Will not to a house, but to a private airport.

Will stares listlessly, and only shrugs minutely, when Hannibal looks at him for a reaction.

“Will”, Hannibal says, and his voice sounds sharp and displeased.

Will looks up at him questioningly.

“We are about to leave the country in a private airplane.”

“Okay?” Will says.

“I am essentially kidnapping you.”

“No, you aren’t. I’m coming along.”

“Why?” Hannibal counters.

“Cause”, Will says. “It’s the only game in town.”

'We’ve never done it before', Will muses. 'Hell, it might be precisely the outrageous thing that turns things around.'

“Are you going to call Jack?” Hannibal asks him.

“Do you trust me not to?”

“I trust you to know the survival value of not trying.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Hannibal almost smirks.

“I’m only pointing out the noose around your neck. What you do about it is entirely up to you.”

“Oh I know it’s there alright. I can always feel it”, Will answers, good-naturedly acknowledging the words he uttered himself what seems like ages ago. He briefly wonders how many times has Hannibal revisited those moments in his memory palace during his incarceration, then decides he can’t really fault him for running off at first chance.

“What about the dragon?” Will asks.

“Let him find us, Hannibal answers, “if he can.”

“Unless he has access to a private plane himself, I doubt he would.”

“That’s that, then, Hannibal says cheerfully. “Our paths shall not cross then – to our mutual benefit.”

Will frowns, worrying at his lip.

Two monsters on the loose in the world. Fantastic.

Is he willing to risk that, in the event he wakes up tomorrow and is March 18th?

“What are you going to do to me?” Will finally asks, after they’ve boarded the plane.

“To you? Absolutely nothing”, Hannibal replies, and Will is reminded of another conversation between them, which Hannibal’s prodigious memory has for once no chance of remembering. "With you”, Hannibal continues – “hopefully everything.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle at the corners and Will smiles, despite himself.

There is not much they can do, in between plane rides, until the clock strikes the fateful midnight hour - but when their lips finally touch, it does have the flavour of  a hopeful everything.

  


XLII.

The alarm clock sounds and Will wakes up, tired, defeated, and close to tears.

'To hell with everything', he thinks.

Feel outside the box.

'For once, I’m going to go by this day without planning anything. I’ll just go where it takes me. Do whatever I feel like. If I feel like putting a bullet through Hannibal’s brain, I will. If I feel like giving him a blow job in the back of the van, then those cops are gonna get an eyeful. If I feel like throwing the both of us off the nearest cliff, then I will do just that.

Screw literally fucking everything.

Will showers fast, puts on some random clothes, and is out the door, without bothering to lock up behind him. What’s the use anyway?

“You’re chipper today”, Jack tells him.

“Oh, you know me, a regular ray of sunshine”, Will deadpans. “Let’s get on with this.”

Jack looks at him suspiciously, but leaves it at that.

They put Hannibal in the van, Will climbs up next to him. Francis shows up and does his routine where he shoots everyone, leaving Will and Hannibal alive. Will hits his head but not too hard. He doesn’t hesitate before getting inside the police car at Hannibal’s invitation. Hannibal takes them somewhere near the ocean. Will can smell the salty breeze before they even get there. Will is curious about the house, and he asks Hannibal about it. He is strangely drawn towards the edge of the cliff, and he stands there for a while, looking down. Hannibal goes to take a shower. Time is running out. If Will wants to do something, he should do it now. He finds he doesn’t want to do anything but wait. So wait he does. Hannibal comes up to him, smelling achingly familiar, like one of those expensive perfumes he used to wear, and pours them both wine.

“Save yourself, kill them all?” he says, inquiringly.

“I don’t know if I can save myself”, Will answers, quietly resigned. He can’t quite hide the defeat in his voice. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. He shrugs. “Maybe that’s just fine.”

Hannibal stares at him, blinking slowly, seemingly taken with an unidentified emotion. With deliberate steps, he moves towards the window.

“No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend”, he pronounces, giving Will a pointed look, just as Will’s mind finally kicks into panic mode.

“He’s watching us”, he warns Hannibal, but Hannibal merely answers, “I know”, before he toasts Will – then the glass breaks – Hannibal falls, shot in the belly and no no no, this is rapidly turning into the same nightmare Will has seen way too many times. He feels the need to get mindlessly drunk and figures he’d start right away. He gulps at the wine, as Dolarhyde climbs in through the window and warns Will “Don’t run, I can catch you.” Will almost shrugs. 'No running here, big guy’, he thinks. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He keeps on sipping his wine as Dolarhyde begins to set his camera and quivers in anticipation at what he’s about to do to Hannibal. Hannibal stares up at Will reproachfully and Will offers a blank look in return. Dolarhyde finishes fiddling with the camera, and says:

“Watching the movie will be extraordinary, but not as extraordinary as the act itself.”

Clutching his wound with one hand, Hannibal throws Will a look of such unveiled terror and pleading, that Will is suddenly shocked back into the immediacy of the moment. He remembers Hannibal’s broken body after Dolarhyde was done with him and he’s damned if he’s going to witness that again. Dolarhyde seems distracted so Will reaches furtively for his gun, but Dolarhyde is too quick for him – he stabs him in the face, and throws him outside onto the veranda. Blood fills Will's mouth and pours down his throat, almost choking him, and Dolarhyde follows him to give him a final blow – but suddenly, and despite his wound, or maybe because of it, with the moonlight shining down on him fiercely – Will feels like wrecking hell. And he gets his chance when Hannibal looms up behind Dolarhyde and jumps on his back, forcing him to stagger like a harassed beast. Will is high on blood and adrenaline, on the bracing smell of the ocean and the enchanting moonlight. 

'This is what it feels like', it thrums through his mind like an unholy chant – 'this is what it feels like to be gloriously alive.'

For the first time since this entire ordeal started, he dimly thinks he wouldn’t mind repeating this particular day, whatever its outcome. He wouldn’t mind revising this once-in-a-lifetime-glorious feeling.

The Dragon collapses, finally defeated – the blood pours out of him in the shape of two giant wings. Will staggers upright, with Hannibal’s help. He clings to Hannibal, pulls him close.

“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us”, he hears Hannibal speak, quietly content. 

“It’s beautiful”, he confirms – because it’s true, and 'it' contains everything: the blood, the battle, the moonlight, the smell and sound of the ocean. Hannibal's design for him, and Hannibal himself, their shared dance as they slayed, the tragedy and pain of all they've been through, suddenly so very beautiful to Will.  'I died once before I could say it, and you should hear it this time', Will thinks, and leans back slightly to take in Hannibal's reaction. 

Hannibal nods at him, lost. He barely dares to touch Will, to hold him, as if afraid the fragile moment would shatter. There’s love and devotion in his eyes as he looks down at Will, as if Will had broken him, then pieced him back together.

Will takes Hannibal’s hand and places it resolutely at his waist, and Hannibal obediently rests it there, heavy and warm, clutching slightly, to pull Will even closer. Will rests his head on Hannibal’s chest with a sigh of content. He’s bleeding heavily, but he still hasn’t come down from his fever dream. He feels dizzy with possibilities. 

He could do anything – anything. 

And then he remembers: he _can_ do anything.

Quietly, slightly, Will feels to the left of him with his foot. It would be so simple. It would be so exhilarating. The ocean rustles and foams down below. Will leans back slightly, swaying them dangerously over the precipice. It is all a fever dream and tomorrow he will wake up to do it all over again. Will sneaks one arm securely around Hannibal’s neck and lets himself fall, pulling Hannibal down with him, in one smooth, elegant motion. He whispers to Hannibal: See you on the other side.

 

The ocean rises up to meet them.

 

 

Will wakes on the shore. Hannibal looms over him, worried, vulnerable, terrified. Will wants to reassure him, but he can barely breathe through the debilitating pain.

Hannibal, it’s okay, Will wants to say. It will be over at midnight. Like in the fairytales.

But midnight had come and gone and it is early dawn which breaks on the horizon, bathing the ocean in a golden light. Will stares, dizzy with pain and fever, not quite making sense of it. He’s on the point of hyperventilating, but then he dimly hears Hannibal speaking to him softly in soothing tones, and he forgets about everything else, straining to hear.

“Shhh, Will. Breathe. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry. It will be alright.”

And for once, Will believes him.

 

It is the first day of the rest of their lives.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Plot twist: the loop would've automatically stopped at 42 anyway ;)


End file.
